


The Old Soldier and his Lost Son

by thesciencechannel



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Gen, Other, Sad, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 20:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesciencechannel/pseuds/thesciencechannel
Summary: Varok’s son died at the Wrathgate. Before his soul was warped. Before his body was tainted with necromancy. Varok’s son died an honorable warrior, in the throes of battle, defending innocents, defending his people.





	The Old Soldier and his Lost Son

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I had a rough week and this is how I coped.
> 
> I'm sorry.

Arcing wisps of hot, panted breaths curled and puffed in the frigid Northrend air. Pain surged through exhausted lungs as each inhalation brought with it an icy bite. It was the curse of those who lived.

The champions of the Horde, the champions of Deathbringer’s Rise stood, lay, knelt, spent of energy or life. Healers, taxed beyond their limits, selflessly worked to mend wounds, to urge those who began to pass back toward the realm of the living. Some of the injured were too far gone and, for them, the healers guided their souls to the afterlife, offering comfort, peace, tranquility. 

Battle. War. His entire culture revolved around it. His entire life had been spent chasing an honorable death. A death his son should have been afforded at the Wrathgate. A right the Lich King stole from him. 

Varok Saurfang walked with lead feet to the body of his only son, mangled, contorted, cold. 

Brave Dranosh. A perfect orc. Ready and willing to give his life in battle. Saurfang remembered teaching him how to fight back in Nagrand. Back on Draenor. Memories fragmented, scattered, obscured. Memories from a lifetime ago. 

Dranosh. Heart of Draenor.

Perhaps Dranosh was meant to stay that side of the Dark Portal. Of any portal. Perhaps to excise such a crucial part of Draenor left both entities to rot for one could not exist without the other. Perhaps if Saurfang had listened to his wife… 

No, such thoughts demeaned Dranosh and his life. He lived as he should, as any orc would dream. He served the Horde as best as he could, worked beside his father, beside Garrosh Hellscream; everything he did was honorable and without objection. 

When he fell at the Wrathgate, he took many of the Lich King’s forces with him, including three frost Vrykul. He warred for the Horde -- for Azeroth, a world he was not meant to be a part of but one he gave his whole life to in sacrifice. Dranosh was cut down by the Lich King’s terrible blade, Frostmourne. He stood no chance against such a mighty villain; however, Dranosh did not shy away from his impending death.

It would have been a fearsome death -- an end that would be sung in ballads, an end all orcs dream of. The end his son deserved. 

As Dranosh fell lifelessly, Frostmourne drew his soul from his body, claiming it for the service of the Lich King. 

Just as he had been in life, in undeath Dranosh was indomitable. He served with all the heart he could muster, cutting down without discrimination the Alliance and the Horde forces he once fought beside. He was ferocious, terrifying. The perfect orc. But he was not Varok’s son.

Varok’s son died at the Wrathgate. Before his soul was warped. Before his body was tainted with necromancy. Varok’s son died an honorable warrior, in the throes of battle, defending innocents, defending his people.

Gazing over the body of his only son, reality began to drip away like blood from a fresh wound. Varok’s breath caught in his chest, his throat constricting, aching, burning. A cold breeze blew over his face, biting through his armor, chilling what warmth persisted in his heart. His heart. The physical manifestation of it laying bloodied, corrupted, truly dead in front of him. 

Varok knelt beside the husk of his son, reaching out, his green fingers trailing over the frigid armor, the cold steel unforgiving. It served as a reminder that everything bright that once made up Dranosh had been consumed. That it was all a distant memory and that there would be no more memories to come after it.

Overcome with the injustice, Varok opened his arms to the spirits and cried out, his shout mingling with sobs as anger faded to his true emotions. Sadness, grief, regret. The emotion wracked his body, his shoulders heaving under the weight of his armor. Suddenly he was acutely aware of the weight of the plate he bore, regularly without complaint. Instead of protection, Varok felt the burden of being a warrior, the sacrifices, the loss in his life. Culminating in this very moment.

When he spoke, his voice was dissociated, unclaimed by any one person. The only part Varok could identify with was the raw emotion underlying it, the soft whimpers, the unhindered sobs.

“You will have a proper ceremony in Nagrand.” That cursed place. If only it had stayed viable. If only they had not needed to invade Azeroth. His boy would still be alive. “Next to the pyres of your mother and your ancestors.” Yes, he would have a warrior’s burial. Varok would be sure of that. 

His arms moved on their own accord, snaking around the cold form of his son. Varok regained some autonomy as he pulled Dranosh close to his chest, holding his boy tight. Tears flowed freely, chilling lines against his face, a new sort of warpaint. Clutching him, Varok moved back toward _Orgrimm’s Hammer_, stepping over and through the throngs of heroes scattered around him.

The champions had a long road ahead of them. They had yet to face the Lich King. It was a path that diverged from Varok’s. As the High Overlord, as a trusted adviser to Hellscream, he could not simply abandon them to their own devices. He stopped at the ring of Light the Paladins laced around the Citadel to transport the champions from place to place. Varok turned back to the amassed group and with strength he did not know he had, spoke to them. “Honor, young heroes… No matter how dire the battle...” He looked down at the beaten form in his arms, at the face of his most beloved son, at the body of the most honorable orc. “Never forsake it.”

With that, he turned, hoping that at least he empowered them slightly. He had done his best. Now, he had to tend to his son and the proceedings that would be required to set his soul to rest. Varok hugged Dranosh a bit closer, murmuring softly to his son, “I am proud of you. Of what you became. You have done me and your ancestors proud.” 

“Rest now, little one. You have earned your place among the stars.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come join my discord! https://discord.gg/Gh4BFDS


End file.
